Shadowed Fate
by Maiafay
Summary: Five years have passed since the tragic events on Kingsparrow Island. War between the Outsider and the Overseers has reached a tipping point. Strange plagues grip the city of Karnaca and the Overseers have taken control. Freedom always requires a sacrifice, and to save the Empire, Corvo Attano must journey into the Void and destroy the one who Marked him: the Outsider himself.
1. Eve Of War

**Warnings:** Adult, slash, dark, canon-typical violence, torture, dubious consent, AU (as the worse ending of the game is "canon").

**Main Pairings:** Corvo/Daud, Corvo/Outsider, Corvo/OC, implied Corvo/Jessamine

**AN: **After the fall of Dunwall, the Empire survived, but the chaos has affected all corners of The Isles. This new world is hostile, unforgiving, and teetering on the brink of destruction. But in the darkness, hope flickers, and leads a chosen few on a journey that will decide their fate, and the fate of their world.

* * *

** Shadowed Fate**

-:-:-

A reckoning had begun.

Tonight, Corvo Attano would break the first link in the great chain that bound Serkonos to the Abbey of the Everyman. The scroll in his inner breast pocket, sealed by Duke Gerald Armas, said one command that would ignite a civil war across the Isles: _Leave none alive._

Floor by floor, room by room, he purged the Karnaca Abbey of its corruption: Overseers and Oracles. Guards and servants. The Fugue Feast reveries had dulled the senses of the Overseers, most still snoring off wine, entangled in the arms of whores or their sister Oracles. Before the dawn of the new year, many passed into the Void without stirring from their slumber.

He contended with a few stragglers here and there, those who hadn't participated in the festivities for whatever their reasons: a servant cleaning the privies, an Overseer studying in the archives. And a young Oracle, eyes like new grass, chestnut curls peeking from beneath her gray wimple. She had turned and smiled at him before he cut her throat, a soft, knowing smile that said:_ I forgive you._

Her body disintegrated into ash in his arms, but the smell of lavender seemed to follow him wherever he went. His hands wouldn't stop trembling. He sought the Heart's counsel, the warmth of her in his hand, metal and flesh and spirit woven as one. He squeezed her gently, and an otherworldly sound stirred in his mind, rising and falling and sharp like wind pushed through a reed. Then she spoke, her voice a lulling echo over the wind.

_"They steal the young ones from the dunes: boys with dark eyes and pale skin. Girls who collect bony trinkets from the shoreline. They never past the tests. Many call for their mothers as they die. Their bodies are burned with no markers to remember their names."_

Jessamine's spirit knew his doubts, and knew what to say to ease them. His breathing steadied, and his heart hardened. The Overseers and the Outsider had pushed him to this. Both formed two sides of a rotted coin that bought only misery and fear. It was time to cast that coin into the sea. No more butchery. No more false gods holding The Isles hostage. If it took war to free them, then so be it.

He paused in the darkened hall. Moonlight glinted on his blade, tainted orange by a nearby window of stained glass. Upon its etched surface a war raged against the Void: holy flames and starlight battled a lithe figure of a man wreathed in the darkness. Black eyes — intent and indifferent on glass as they were in the Void — seemed to burn into his back as he escaped into the cellar, his heart a frantic thing clawing at his ribs.

Did his defiance anger The Outsider? Did it amuse him? Did The Outsider even care? Five years had passed without contact. Without visiting a single shrine. Without dreaming of the Void and its chaotic wonders. Only the Mark remained, useful for now, but someday he would sever that too — literally, if he must. The Outsider's leash couldn't hold him forever.

The cellar spanned beneath the entire Abbey, and according to the Duke's spies, under the gardens and the graveyard. Rumors suggested that some tunnels went as far as the coastline. No map or blueprints, but navigating blind didn't deter him from going deeper underground.

Shadows lightened and sounds sharpened. Iridescent rat eyes shone in the dark. And though Void energy simmered under his skin and throbbed through his veins, he didn't use it. Spirit Remedies had all but disappeared under the embargo of New Dunwall's puppet Emperor, Renard Constantine. The Abbey had declared it heresy to create, sell, or buy the remedy due to its suspected "occult" ties. And with Piero Joplin presumed dead in Dunwall, the original recipe had died with him — leading to several "tweaked" versions of the remedy sold on the Black Market. No one in their right mind touched that stuff, let alone paid the insane amount of coin for it. Good old-fashioned mana regeneration suited him fine, but the trick was conservation and restraint. Last resort only. He had suffered enough throes of mana exhaustion to resist of Gazing through walls and Transversing all over Serkonos for the hell of it.

He ventured through a dark maze of rooms and halls full of crates, barrels, and piles of dusty, broken electrical equipment. The sour scent of fermented cider mingled with the earthy damp of the stone walls. The hall to the right yielded two entries to an ancient moldering library. No guards or Overseers. And still no sign of his main target. High Overseer Alexander Fairchild should have been in his office, or in his chambers enjoying the last hours of sinful delights. Both yielded nothing except an ill-fated Overseer rummaging through Fairchild's undergarment drawer.

After a climb down a metal stairwell in dire need of maintenance, he came upon a crumbling archway and a long corridor draped in glowing violet moss. Eerie and beautiful, and it brought the image of the Outsider's sculpted face, that patronizing tilt of his head, and the playful mockery in his voice.

Why was this demon haunting his thoughts now? He gritted his teeth and sucked in his breath until his chest ached. And then he exhaled, slow, steady. Moss...only moss. That black-eyed fuck needed to get out of his head and back into the Void where he belonged. Too many empty halls down here, and ever since the stairs, he had the odd sense of being followed. Every glance behind proved him foolish, but anything could be around the next corner. Overseers, Fairchild. His gut and his brain agreed for once. Something felt wrong.

Laughter echoed from somewhere past the moss and wet stone. Two males, maybe more. Void energy surged, but he forced it to heel and crept forward, keeping close to the wall.

The corridor split at the end. He followed the voices down the left hall and then ducked behind a stack of crates. Two Warfare Overseers stood vigilant next to a black iron door. Their white festival masks faced his direction, but they continued their muttered conversation without pause. The element of surprise still belonged to him, but not luck. Besides those ugly metal masks, the Holger devices strapped to the chests of both Warfares negated his crossbow and pistol - not to mention the consequences should those devices start turning. His nightly lullaby of Overseer music may keep the Outsider away — and give him a bit of resistance to the negative effects — but more than one device still posed a threat. Unless he wanted to collapse the corridor - and potentially the Abbey itself - with a grenade, he would have to get creative. And creative meant magic. Even if it did pain him to dig into his mana reserves and give the Outsider another piece of his soul.

The Mark glowed through his gloves, a warm, brilliant orange that belayed the icy flow of energy that seemed to rise from some dark place inside him. His ears rang and his skin tingled. His trousers tightened to the point of discomfort. This force had been easier to resist back in Dunwall - its seductive thrill, less poignant. _Why reign it in?_ said a whisper in his mind. _There's plenty of mana to spare. Let it free._

The world went gray and the Warfares froze in mid-gesture, trapped in time as insects in amber. To them, he must have appeared as a demon hurling out of the shadows with unnatural speed, dirty black longcoat billowing behind him. Once that coat had been royal blue with golden trim, but he had been a different person then, someone who would've winced at the way he plunged his sword through the neck of one obstacle, and speared the other through the eye of his mask. Brutal, efficient. He was what the Overseers made him. He was what the Outsider created.

His targets slumped in tandem, blood oozing through the holes in their masks, and fingers cramping around handles left unturned. Power hummed through his blood. The world once again changed, awash in rusted hues this time. Far beyond the door, the faint yellow light of two figures shimmered in his vision. One standing, the other seated. Fairchild and another Overseer? Another wanton Oracle? In the end, it made no difference. This room would be their tomb.

He gleaned a keyring from one of the dead Warfares. Oiled hinges eased his entry, and sparse lanterns aided his approach. A short hall led to a large room with circle of stone at the center blocking his view. The air smelled sour here, and unseen firelight bathed the far wall in red. Hooks and restraints hung from the ceiling, and several torture instruments lay strewn over carts and shelves. Black stains dotted the walls and floor, and in one corner, two piles of colorful rags.

Wait, not rags. Clothes. In particular, the native garb of the Dune Dwellers. In one pile, the odd ruffled skirts of the women, and the bright vests and trousers of the men. In the other pile, torn undergarments, and sandals with no straps. Above the clothes, broken seashell hairpins and pearled embellishments glittered from inside a squat, dirty jar on the wall shelf. Under that same shelf, a cloth doll stared at him with one button eye and a faded blue sundress, her arms hanging by frayed threads.

His sword shook. This is what he and the Duke had suspected all along. Too many from the shores had gone missing over the last several months. The Heart had said the truth.

He Gazed through the wall. The standing figure bent over the seated one and appeared to kiss the other on the head. Words of a solemn prayer drifted to him in fragments.

"_May the cosmos embrace you….free at last…Outsider's taint…stars will guide you now…suffer no more."_

The familiar baritone and crisp Tyvian accent revealed the standing figure as Alexander Fairchild. He moved closer, the glow of the Mark well hidden. The High Overseer stood in front of an interrogation chair, hands on his hips, head cocked as if in thought. Though the Hymn of Atonement was hours ago, Fairchild still wore his white ceremonial overcoat. At this angle, he had a full view of the poor boy trapped within restraints, age somewhere between ten and fourteen. The boy's chin rested on his bare chest, his short black hair dripping blood on the pale, bruised skin of his bony shoulders and torso. Delicate fingers curled in death over the arms of the chair, straps digging into frail wrists.

Fairchild clucked his tongue as if disheartened by the mess and released the restraints. The ceremonial coat gleamed in the firelight, and not one hair had strayed from the polished gray waves slicked back with whale grease. Unblemished and perfect, unlike his victim who tumbled out of the chair like a sack of broken sticks.

By the Void, he would have stuck then, but Fairchild straightened and turned toward him.

"Come out, assassin," said Fairchild with a smug sneer, his beady eyes narrowing. "My sister Oracle warned me that a demon would attack during the Fugue Feast, but stars bless her feeble mind, I did not take her seriously. Our dear sisters see demons everywhere, in everything. Yet, here you are, as foretold. I assume you used black magic to get past my Warfares. Spawn of the Outsider. You cannot harm me." Fairchild unsheathed his sword in one graceful move and assumed en garde. "Face me, witch."

Who was he to deny a dead man's last request? He sheathed his weapons and stepped into the light with a deep mocking bow. "As you command, High Overseer."

No gaping astonishment, or gasp of awe at his appearance. A little disappointing, but then again, everyone in Karnaca knew him either by rumor or myth. Only a few trusted souls knew him by truth.

"Ah, the Shadow of Armas." Fairchild squinted as if trying to see past the mask. "You are here at his behest?"

"You picked the wrong time to visit Serkonos, sir." He tossed the scroll on the floor. "Your orders of execution, and of all those who follow you."

Fairchild stared at the scroll as if it had just shat on his boots, and sputtered, "That fool has lost his mind! His entire court will be executed for high treason!"

"The Duke is willing to risk all of Serkonos to be free of the Abbey's yoke. It's been around our necks for too long."

Without changing his stance, Fairchild withdrew his pistol and cocked the hammer. "Have you been whispering in the Duke's ear, Shadow? Using your dark arts to manipulate and beguile the righteous? The people say you never speak because the Duke cut out your tongue. Perhaps I should give that rumor truth. The pretty lilt in your voice tells me you're a native of this island, but that nasal from the northern isles suggests some time abroad. Where do you hail from? Gristol or Morley?"

"Dunwall."

Fairchild's thick brows became one, then separated again. The pistol wavered. "You are Daud."

He started laughing. Not that it was funny, really, but the irony alone deserved a good chuckle. If only a certain someone had heard that proclamation — but no, that someone was too busy playing mystical guru to a bunch of street rats and thieves to be bothered with trivial matters such as war. Still, Daud's reaction would have been fun to watch, maybe even more entertaining than Fairchild puffing up his chest like an affronted crane and screeching with pious indignation.

"Filth! Vermin cannot mock the holy! They crawl on their bellies and gorge themselves on the dead! And you, Daud, you are the lowest creature, the most vile. You slither through the catacombs beneath this grand city and think the light cannot touch you. But it can. And it will. You will burn, witch. Like all your kind."

The rant itself didn't offend him. Every fanatic that followed the Abbey sang the same tired old tune, but now he had ruffled Fairchild's feathers well and good — and judging from the white-knuckled grip on the pistol — this old bird was ready to start shooting. A sleep dart would end the tantrum, but those things took forever to wear off. And executing a snoring target seemed…unsporting.

If the High Overseer wanted a witch, then he'd give him a witch.

Space warped around him and he Transversed. Fairchild shrieked at the sudden loss of his pistol and sword, and made a mud-crab scramble under the nearest workbench. In different circumstances, the sight of that white-clad, pompous rear smacking the bench as it wiggled underneath might have brought on another chuckle or two, but he didn't have the luxury of chasing this fool all night. One bullet, one arrow - that's all it would take. But would it be enough? That boy cooling on the floor deserved justice, as did every victim tortured and killed at Fairchild's elegant hands.

No, an example had to be made, a warning to all future High Overseers who thought they were above the law.

The wall behind the bench and the crates to either side prevented escape, boxing Fairchild inside a dark cubbyhole where the only thing visible were the whites of his wide, unblinking eyes. Not the brightest High Overseer in the Abbey was he? He aimed his pistol at the cringing lump in the shadows and said: "Out. Now."

The lump didn't move, but loosed a high-pitched cackling giggle before hissing one word: _"Witch,"_ and retreated further into the gloom_. _One of the crates started rocking, followed by unmistakable sounds of rummaging and labored breathing. Searching for a weapon? Bad, bad High Overseer.

The crate splintered with his first and last warning shot. The lump twitched with a yelp that dissolved into another disturbing titter. People reacted differently to seeing magic. Some shrugged it off, others panicked and ran. And some just broke down. Seemed the High Overseer belonged to the latter group, which wasn't surprising. The higher they were, the deeper they plunged. From the state of this torture chamber, and latest victim, Fairchild had been halfway there already. The baubles and trinkets inside those glass jars weren't there for storage, they were _souvenirs_, and those clothing piles had been sorted with care. One pile to burn, the other to…keep. Twisted son-of-a-bitch.

More shuffling under the bench, a flash of black boot, then a defiant shove of the crate he'd just shot. Crazy bastard, but smart. His target must have realized by now the reason he wasn't riddled with bullets or chewed on by summoned rats was because a worse fate had been planned. So now it was a stalling game, one he didn't have patience for. He hunkered down and gestured with the pistol. "I said out, High Overseer. Or I'll leave your corpse to rot where it falls so everyone will know how you cowered like a timid mudlark before I shot you."

When all else fails, insult their pride. The lump seemed to consider this proposal, and accept it with a hesitant shift forward. He backed up to give Fairchild more room, but something _plinked_ under the workbench, something metal, something familiar. Then that something rolled toward him in what seemed like slow motion. A canister, or —

Realization hit too late.

Grenade!

He threw himself to the side as it went off, but instead of his limbs flying in every direction, his lungs flooded with expanding chalk. Fire inside his eyes, in his throat, up his nose, burning and turning his tears to ash. Not a grenade. Chokedust.

His hands closed around an imaginary pistol. Magic surged so hard his skin prickled with icy heat. He Transversed into a table, knocking it over. Then a man-sized shadow charged at him through the cloud of smoke, screaming words that made no sense, and swinging something he should probably get away from. He Transversed again, but he was like a panicking bird flying in the wrong direction. His nose collided with the wall. Lights and black spots exploded behind his eyes.

He hit the floor.

Fairchild pounced on top of him, lips peeled back in a frozen snarl. Thick blood filled his throat, choking him from the inside as Fairchild's hands squeezed from the outside. Sword. He needed his sword. He pawed at his belt and at the vise closing off his air. Fuck, where was his sword? Bright specks of color popped and sparkled in his vision, edges going grayer and grayer, and all the while, Fairchild cackled in his face like the very thing he claimed to hate.

"Hah! Writhe, witch! Writhe and die! Your master won't save you. You are nothing to him - nothing!"

The hands around his throat now clutched the sides of his head. He managed one, desperate gasp before the back of his skull slammed into stone.

Fairchild and the room vanished. The pain numbed. The Void expanded around him, enveloped him in hues of twilight and mist. Fragments of reality hung in the airless space: leafless trees upside down, their roots above intertwined like vines. Rocks in the air turning in place. Slabs of cobblestone floated next to the skeletons of buildings. Chains linked these islands one to another, strung from impossible points and connecting to other places unseen. No sensation other than helpless abeyance. Under his floating feet, a vortex churned, bottomless and forever. His soul mirrored the chaos below him.

How would he atone for Emily's death? How would he find peace?

_"You wouldn't, Corvo,"_ The Outsider's melodic voice seized him from within and balanced him between life and oblivion. _"You will wander the Void like so many others of your kind. Lost souls forever seeking what is just out of reach. Such a shame for you to die like this, Corvo. And at the hands of a man who takes great pleasure inflicting pain on others - on you in particular. Nothing fills Alexander Fairchild with more desire than killing a witch."_

The Void receded like a rolling white wave. He returned to the throbbing ache of his skull, and a nose that felt ten times the size of his face. The weight of his mask lifted away, but the weight on his eyes stayed. In the dark, someone said his name like a whispered question, and then that same someone giggled in husky delight.

Hands probed between his thighs, the breath in his ears coming faster and heavier.

"Hanging by a thread, I see. Good. Let me send you into the Void with a _special_ parting gift."

His eyes flew open. A howling gale rose from nowhere and everywhere and blasted the _offensive _thing on top of him to the other side of the chamber. The brassy clang of impact shivered through the hairs of his ears. The tempest raged around him a moment more, then calmed and disappeared.

He coughed and sputtered for several minutes, every broken, swollen part of him lurching in agony. Then he flopped over and vomited the bloody remains of his evening meal. So much for that roasted whale fillet and fig pastry.

He slid himself up into a kneeling position and swayed there like a drunken snake, the room spinning in sideways loops. It could spin and spin all it wanted. If he tried stopping it, he might throw up again. Somewhere in the dim recesses of the room, Fairchild moaned as if having a bad dream. The bastard and his groping hands. He should cut them off, and then cut off something else.

The clasps on his belt pouches suddenly seemed like complex mechanisms. Which one had he put the elixir in? Of course, in the last pocket he ended up checking. He drank the vial's contents in three painful gulps. Not much for taste, but it cooled his throat and soothed his splitting skull. And maybe by tomorrow, the bridge of his nose would have straightened itself.

Another moan from the corner, and louder. Even in the state of unconsciousness, the High Overseer demanded attention. Wrenched nobleman.

It took another minute or so to stagger to his feet, but once he was up, he stayed up. Sokolov's Elixir had done its magic.

He found Fairchild in a heap by the furnace with a perfect imprint of the furnace shield branded on the once pristine white coat. If that shield had been open, it would have spared him the extra effort — and would have been poetic in its own right. And still, it wasn't too late for a bullet to the head, or an arrow to the heart — but no, those hands had been on him. And that panting in his ears. All those children…had it been enough to keep their possessions as trophies? Or had they endured those same hands? He had a feeling the answer was yes.

He yanked Fairchild up by the hair and threw him next to the boy's corpse. Some rope kept his stirring captive — who now stared at the dead boy with dazed, horrified eyes — from attempting another swan dive under a table. And wadded underwear from the "keep" clothing pile kept the ranting at bay. A more permanent solution to that little problem lay twinkling in the firelight, but required a few more tools to make it work.

A brief search through the chamber yielded everything he needed: a small clamp, more rope, and a neck strap. And the apothecary cabinet produced the final ingredient: a vial of bright yellow venom gleaned from a deep sea hagfish. Nasty stuff. Killed within minutes, but those minutes would be long and agonizing.

He set the wooden table upright and fetched the twinkling tool from the floor. A heretic's fork. Overseers attached these to confessed "witches" by a strap around the neck: one pronged end digging under the chin, the other into the base of the throat. Then the poor soul was hoisted up like a piece of meat, deprived of food and sleep while gravity became the unwitting torturer. The device itself didn't cause death, but a good soak in hagfish venom would.

He checked his time piece. Almost dawn. Every moment spent here made it more difficult to slip away later. The first day of the Month of Earth called the righteous home to atone and begin anew - and all Oracles and Overseers who survived the Grand Guard's attack in the capital would be fleeing here for safety and the guidance of their venerable leader. But death waited for them beyond the main doors by spring razor traps placed in strategic locations. And the unlucky few who escaped those would be hunted and executed, one by one.

_Leave none alive_.

He unclenched his fists from the shaking heretic's fork. The boy's corpse shimmered in the firelight like a memory from the Void, a ghost of itself. Unreal. And the squirming simpering thing next to it, a reminder of everything wrong in this world.

The lower prongs he left alone, but the upper pair received two drops of venom each. More than enough. Steel turned black, and Fairchild started screaming through his gag.

And the screaming continued until a certain small clamp caught hold of that offending tongue, and a heated blade did the rest.

"_I'm disappointed, Corvo. It's like you've gone out of your way to be brutal."_

"Shut up, boatman," he said to the memory of Samuel's judgment, to the pain of being abandoned by a man he'd considered a friend. "I owe you nothing."

But the stubborn spirit refused to be cast out. _"You used to have honor."_

"I said, shut up!" He hauled Fairchild — who hadn't once ceased his miserable keening — over to the pulley and stripped that ridiculous jacket off him. One more item for the burn pile. "You deserve this, and you deserve more — all of you! Liars and hypocrites, burning so-called heretics, torturing innocent people and children! And for what? Power? Order? You don't even know!"

He pressed the heretic's fork under Fairchild's quivering chin, not breaking flesh, but stopping that incessant noise, and letting whoever might be watching with such _avid _interest to hear what he had to say. "It's just a game, isn't it? The Outsider versus the Overseers. The bastard probably made you out of boredom, and now he can't control you. So it's up to the Marked to do his dirty work, to keep this world from falling into the Void because of your damned war!"

The other end of the fork bit deep into the hollow of Fairchild's throat, giving the poisoned end more wiggle room. Plenty of nostril flaring and clenching teeth, but no howling. Finally, some dignity from the bastard - or maybe just fear of what would happen should that mouth open a scant wider than the fork allowed. He adjusted the strap and clasped it one notch tighter than comfortable. Then he secured the pulley hook between the High Overseer's bound, knobby wrists.

The pulley squealed and its cargo rose like a stiff, dead fish, neck straining, and arms lifting over his head.

"Yes, hold that head high, Alexander. Shouldn't be difficult for you. All those years lifting your nose at the lesser born, thinking you're better, thinking you can do whatever you want to them. Well this is it, High Overseer. This is what you've been practicing for." He anchored the rope around the iron ring on the wall and brought over a chair to stand on — but he didn't stand on it yet. One last detail remained. He retrieved his mask from the floor. Blood from the bent metal frame smeared his gloves. Ruined, but the Duke's blacksmith would make another. None of them like the first, of course. No one in the Empire could match Piero's skill and artistry, but the substitutes did well enough to intimidate his targets and conceal his identity.

The chair creaked under his weight, but held. A blank, glassy stare met his, but then gazed past him, pupils widening, seeing something beyond the shadowed corners of the room. Fairchild shuddered then, a rippling movement that traveled from head to toe, and would have killed him had the poisoned fork been a hairbreadth higher.

"Do you see the Void?"

Fairchild swallowed, tears leaking free again. He set the mask as gently on that weathered and stricken face as he had with his first on Emily's grave. He stroked the mask's leather cheek and leaned close, whispering like a lover. "I hope the Void feasts on your soul. I hope it tears it to shreds, and then spews what's left back here to relive your moment of death over, and over, and over again — for all eternity. And then, maybe then, that might be penance enough for all the suffering you've caused."

He smiled at the loathing radiating deep within the eyeholes of the mask, from every taut muscle and strangled noise that fought its way free of Fairchild's convulsing throat. "Oh, and say hello to the Outsider for me."

Death could come in an hour, or after he closed the door — it didn't matter either way. Mission complete. Target terminated.

He left the boy propped against the wall, a witness to his murderer's final moments. It seemed fitting.

In the hall leading back to the Abbey, he glanced at his time piece again. Dawn. First day of the Month of Earth. Happy New Year, Serkonos.

And then came a bout of uneasiness.

No going back now.

* * *

In three weeks, chapter 2. Corvo runs into some...trouble when leaving the Abbey, but receives some unexpected (and unwanted) assistance.


	2. The Morning After

They ambushed him in the courtyard.

The Warfares had hidden behind the high rows of hedges blooming with spicy-scented fire roses, a scent he'd stopped to appreciate on his way to the Abbey's main gates. After the stench of that torture chamber, the fragrant clash of apple and pepper cleared his head, and for a moment, the world and his dark deeds faded away.

Then a rustle of leaves, and a creak of something metal. He recoiled from the hedge, but not fast enough. The first wave of music hit him full force.

He pulled out his crossbow and staggered as his magic fled. A second wave of wailing noise joined the first and his shot went wide. And then another device began to play. And another. And another. A legion of Warfares and their boxes of torment.

The cacophonous roar of their music sent him screaming to the ground.

Then nothing. No sensation. No sound. He sank into a darkness even the Void and its master could not penetrate. Fathomless and empty and eternal. A descent without end, falling out of himself, out of —

Someone slapped him.

White light speared his eyes and straight into his skull. A high-pitched whine went on and on, deafening all else. He groaned and the darkness beckoned again. Not a yawning pit of despair this time, but solace and escape from the —

Another blow knocked the thought right out of his head. Then a rough shake rattled his teeth. Distorted words pierced through the whine, and seemed spoken from the end of a long tunnel: _"Wake up, witch."_

He slivered his eyes open. Rows of golden masks blurred around him. Uniforms formed a gray wall that moved and shifted, sunlight stabbing between the gaps. Something cold and wet soaked the knees of his trousers, the air sweetly spiced with apples and warming grass. Still in the courtyard, and kneeling. Hands bound behind him by scratchy rope. The tension around his neck increased, and then slackened. Someone had a hold of his hood, keeping him upright. Coat pockets felt lighter, probably empty —

The fog in his mind dissipated in an instant. The Heart…the Overseers were ignorant of what, and_ who_ she was. All they would see is a tool of the Outsider. They would lock her away in some vault or try to destroy her. He had to find her — and the rest of his gear, his weapons. None of this attack made sense. How had so many Warfares escaped the Grand Guard?

"Corvo Attano, look at me."

The hand on his hood yanked, forcing his head up. The gray wall shifted to allow a tall, crimson splotch of color through. Dawn haloed the newcomer's face, obscuring his features. His apparel marked him as higher rank, but who besides the High Overseer could command the Warfares? The newcomer came closer, broad shoulders blocking the sun — and on one of those shoulders, the insignia of the man he'd strung up no more than an hour ago._ No, impossible__…_

"Did I miss the Feast of Painted Kettles?" His voice cracked on the word _kettles._ As if affronted, the hand on his hood yanked again. He coughed against the constriction around his throat, the world going misty.

"Enough of that, Brother Matthew. He's not your hound." Aristocratic in speech, but with a touch of Morley rasp, a suggestion of lesser pedigree. The newcomer's face matched his voice: angular jaw darkened by a shadow of a beard, and a slightly heavier thatch of hair on his upper lip. A pensive drawn mouth above a sharp chin, and faint worry lines across his forehead. Thin wire spectacles gave the newcomer a scholarly air, and lessened the harsher features of his face. Gray streaked the dark sable of his hair and gathered in full force at his temples, the hair there not long enough for a comb or oil, but the crown long enough for the wind to toss.

Behind his spectacles, the newcomer's tawny eyes scrutinized, and not with Fairchild's maddened glint, but with a focused, keen intelligence. "The Ascending Circle chose me a week before The Fugue Feast," The newcomer said with a smile that managed to be both apologetic and predatory. "And sadly, no Dance of Investiture. It was all very hush hush and hasty — a formality, really. Even in subterfuge the elders keep with tradition. It's one of their more endearing qualities."

"I doubt Fairchild would agree," he said, sounding as dazed as he felt. _Another_ High Overseer? And chosen before the Fugue Feast. The timing was too coincidental to be an internal power struggle. The Palace was only a few miles from the Abbey. By motor carriage it was a mere hour away. An entire clergy lay dead by his hand alone. If the Warfares had caught the Grand Guard by surprise, it would have been a blood bath. By the Void, he better be wrong.

"Fairchild never knew," said the High Overseer with a rueful sigh. "His temperament was as volatile as whale oil and just as caustic. He didn't have friends in the Order. He didn't have friends in the Empire. The public detested him and half of his personal guard wanted to kill him. The elders threatened the Heretic's Brand if he didn't follow their every whim — if he didn't tour a certain country of an openly discontented Duke. If he didn't remain there during the Fugue Feast with but a handful of Warfares to protect him. Such a tragedy, what happened on the eve of the New Year. Assassinated by the Shadow of Armas. Poor Fairchild. So unlucky."

Fairchild wasn't the only unlucky one. "What's the point of the Heretic's Brand if you people don't use it?" He tested his bindings. Subtle turns of his wrists: first left, then right. Let's see how closely Brother Matthew was paying attention back there.

"Yes, I supposed it would have been easier," the High Overseer admitted with a wry laugh, and clasped his gloved hands behind his back. "But would a brand stop a man who sees black eyes and pale skin in every child, who uses his idle, _filthy_ hands to cleanse these innocent souls?" Those eyes snared his again and didn't let go. "I think not. Your blade ended his depravity, Corvo, and I cannot express my gratitude enough."

In his mind, the Oracle's face shone soft and lambent. Then her radiant smile:_ I forgive you_. His conscience squirmed under that phantom smile. "And the others I killed here, do you thank me for them?"

That fierce stare released him and softened over the chapel walls, over the flowering ivy of yellow and white blossoms, and over the long red banners bearing the moon and trident symbols of their Order. The High Overseer spoke, somber and reflective, the Morley rasp less pronounced: "The Cosmos calls home both young and old. Sometimes without warning, sometimes without cause. This is a mystery that has confounded us since the First Age, and will continue confound us until the Void claims all."

"Save your sermon, High Overseer, it's wasted on me."

"Is it?" the High Overseer said in that same solemn tone. "When I searched your quarters in the Palace, and all your hiding places and secret rooms, I found no shrine to that creature."

His wrists jerked so hard that one of the ropes drew blood. The warm flow of it trickled over his fingers. He waited for more information, some gloating barb or boast that would reveal the fate of the House of Armas, but nothing came. The High Overseer plucked a fire rose from a nearby hedge — his gloves giving protection from its stinging thorns — and circled it under his nose, breathing deeply. He waited, the magic in his blood yearning for release and tension knotting his shoulders. Clustered in five groups of four around the courtyard, the Warfares shifted like a herd of nervous horses — and under their gloves, a white-knuckled grip on every Holger Device. The fire rose continued to twirl with deliberate slowness.

So they were going to play this game.

"I don't worship what I don't love," he said. He'd never tried unleashing the magic with his hands bound before. This wasn't the best time to experiment, but he had to try something.

"Did he anger you in some way? Find favor in another?"

"He doesn't play favorites, so he says." He berated himself for that last part and said, "I know what you're doing, High Overseer, and it won't work."

"I'm merely indulging my curiosity. I've never caught a witch like you before."

"Who says you caught me?"

The rose stopped twirling and the unblinking scrutiny returned. "Then fly away, little crow. Or summon vermin. Or possess one of my men. Go on, I'll allow you one chance to escape. It's only fair as I have so many, and you are but one, defenseless heretic."

If he had his blade, he would have plunged it into the High Overseer's forehead. But he plastered a tight, sporting smile on his face and said: "If you want to see magic so badly, why not play in the Echoing Catacombs? Daud loves surprise visits from the Abbey."

"Yes, we know all about Daud and his barbaric cult. They may have changed their name and their attire, but they are the same scourge from Old Dunwall. What we don't know is the specifics of his connection to you. Where you met and when, and your relationship to him."

"Estranged acquaintances. And that's being generous."

"Good to know, yes, a relief actually." The High Overseer resumed his appraisal of the rose and said, "Because I'd hate to think the Duke's assassination would come between _close friends_."

His hands stilled, fingertips dripping. He didn't move. Or speak. The shadow of Brother Matthew fell over him, but he didn't acknowledge it. "You lie," he whispered when the blood in his ears stopped pounding.

The pitying look he got in return confirmed otherwise. "But why?" he said, unable to reconcile the possibility of the Duke being dead, or of Daud's supposed involvement. "Why would Daud even bother?" His mind reeled at the possibilities — each one more improbable than the last. Daud cared for two things: himself and his people. He hadn't agreed with the rebellion, but he hadn't condemned it either, saying: "if it stayed out of his caves" then Armas and his "Shadow" could do as they pleased. The Duke had never invaded the catacombs, preferring to give "the strangeness that dwelt there" its well-deserved space. And true to his word, Daud hadn't killed for coin since his self-imposed exile — though over the past year, planning for the coup had taken precedence over babysitting an ex-assassin. But in all fairness, he had no right to judge — and had no reason to believe this High Overseer's pile of oxshit.

"So…Daud left the comfort of his lair to assassinate the Duke for no apparent reason. And then what? He decided to take out the entire Grand Guard all by himself?" He went to work on the ropes again, clenching his jaw against the renewed pain. But no cries of alarm rose from the shadow over him, and no jerks of his hooded chain - which meant Brother Matthew's attention lay elsewhere, likely on his new leader's lazy, strolling approach, rose still in hand, spectacles reflecting the pastel morning sky.

"Daud's Wraiths disposed of most the Grand Guard," said the High Overseer, sounding grave and saddened by what he had supposedly witnessed. "Quite the slaughter. Blood all over those exquisite marbled floors. They never stood a chance — and how could they? Wraith Crust armor and painted skin. Even my travels to Pandyssia hadn't prepared me for the savagery of their attack. Like chameleons they were, disappearing in plain sight with naught but a shimmer and a corpse in their stead."

"Yet…you and your Warfares survived. How convenient. All your twinkling lights in heaven must have aligned just right. Or, your men were the ones doing the slaughtering." Steel in his voice, in his eyes, and around his wrists, a sodden gap. Almost free. The magic pressed under his skin, more than ready.

The fire rose dropped to the ground, and the High Overseer knelt in front of him as if swearing fealty: one knee up, and his right arm thrown over the top. Again that gaze pinned him in place, dulled by glass and wire, but no less unnerving in its intensity. If his eyes were truly windows to his soul, the High Overseer seemed intent on flinging them wide and pillaging what he found inside. No secrets here, no lies. Only one other could unravel him like this, and he was somewhere in the Void, watching Forever with his black empty stare.

"Armas was many things. Hot-headed, belligerent, hostile in Parliament, and he blamed the Empire and Abbey for letting his eldest son bleed out in Old Dunwall's streets. But he didn't deserve to be gutted like a hagfish in front of his lovely wife as she wept and begged for Daud not to kill her beloved. And then their son, that poor child —"

"What about Roberto?" He tensed, bracing himself, vowing not to lose control of his already bristling temper. The Duke's remaining heir, age the same as Emily five years ago, and intelligent like her, always with a question on his lips, always smiling, and always finding things to laugh at. He had kept his distance from the boy for fear of spreading whatever taint he carried, the dark aura that had eroded Emily's innocence and led to her corruption…and death.

The High Overseer paused as if deciding which lie would be the most tragic, but when he spoke, the halting gentleness to his voice swept away any doubt of his sincerity. "The boy is dead, Corvo. By accident, as I believe they never meant to harm the child. He ran from them, slipped…and the balcony had been damaged. It…was very high."

The air left his lungs, his eyes prickling with sudden heat. The magic responded without his call, welling up and flowing through him like a wild, rushing current. The Mark flared so bright the grass on that side shone gold. Brother Matthew shouted and his shadow leapt away. The singing rasp of many drawn blades sent a flock of nesting kingsparrows into panicked flight.

But it was Overseer music that dealt the killing blow to his magic and his fury. He doubled over, the world awash in red and torment until the High Overseer barked a command, and the boxes went silent.

Wet grass stuck to his face as he panted into the ground, the sweet pungent scent of dirt giving him some measure of comfort. Then his hood once again jerked up and his head went lolling along. But it wasn't Brother Matthew's fingers knotting in his hair, or twisting his face toward an equal expression of disgust and ire.

"You see now what chaos that creature creates?" The Morley accent thickened the High Overseer's voice, each word seeming to scrape its way out. "What his followers will do in his name? Doubt my intentions, and doubt the Abbey's desire for peace, but never doubt the Empire's strength to resist the darkness that besieges her now. The Outsider will not have Serkonos; he will not divide us further. The Duchess still lives, but for how long? How can the Abbey insure her safety when heretics rule this city? When the demon that murdered her husband roams the streets, free to do as he wishes — "

"No, I believe about the boy, but the Duke…no, not Daud — it was you. The Abbey somehow found out, someone told — "

"Yes, we have spies everywhere, and in the least likely of places. It's how we found you. And remember what I said about friends, little crow? Daud is not one of them. Nor am I — My orders come with the Duchess's blessing. And as you can imagine, she isn't in a forgiving mood."

By some unspoken command, the knots around his wrists fell away, cut by the same blade that now pressed under his chin, keeping him motionless while someone else — Brother Matthew perhaps — grasped the hand that bore the Mark by the bloody wrist.

"He was almost free," Brother Matthew said, accusing, and gripped him tighter as if imagining he could somehow still flee.

The dagger at his throat tilted slightly, stinging as it drew blood. "What should I do with you, little crow?" the High Overseer mused. "By right I should execute you for the murders of countless innocents — not only here, but for every soul you've sent into the Void since that creature claimed you. Blood for blood. Your head on a spike or your body burned at the stake. I wonder though, would it be justice, or a wasted opportunity? You have no love for that creature, no devotion. Why he chose you is a puzzle most intriguing, and what intrigues me…stays alive." To the Warfares he said, "Play."

And then the blade at his throat plunged into the center of the Mark.

He cried out in surprise more than pain, already half-swooning from the siphoning pull of the music. The flash of steel meeting enchanted flesh seared his vision in gold. He fell to his side, cradling his wounded hand against his chest. A terrible throbbing beneath the Mark, veins and bone squirming, pulsating, and seething with the wet-stone grinding song of the Outsider's runes. No one else seemed to hear it because the Warfares kept playing on and on. In mercy, the whispers of the Void drowned the music out, a susurrus he had heard only once before when he'd misjudged a ledge during a Transversal back in Old Dunwall. In that rocky niche between John Clavering Boulevard and Bottle Street, he had laid on the rain-soaked pavement, paralyzed, wind knocked out of him, and his head full of the same admonishing choir of whispers.

The music stopped. But the ringing didn't. And his hand and his head kept hurting. As if being courteous, the whispers faded enough for the High Overseer to say: "Don't worry, Corvo, your benefactor may not be present in the flesh — if he indeed has flesh — but he aids you regardless. Look at your hand."

He didn't have to look. Sometime between the last warbling note of the music boxes and the final sigh of the Void, the flesh on his hand had healed itself, the Mark whole again, and glowing as if anticipating further harm. Magic gathered like mud in his veins, crawling rather than surging. A realization then, of what this clever bastard had done — and must have done before to some other Marked one. How else could he have known the wound had sucked his mana reserves dry?

He retreated into himself, took stock. Wait, not all the mana was gone. One benefit of relying on his own mana regeneration was a deeper well to draw from. Some remained, a shallow pool barely enough to Transverse over to the opened hedge gate several feet beyond the closest Warfare.

Brother Matthew nudged him to his knees, hood once again pulled taut. If he had the strength enough to Transverse, Brother Matthew was coming along for the ride.

"You see? Completely healed." The High Overseer cleaned his dagger with a brown-stained rag and returned the blade to its sheath. Then in an oddly civil gesture, offered the rag to him and said, "By your expression, I assume you've never tried to cut the Mark away, or damage it. No, I expect not. The lure of power is too great - even if you didn't ask for it."

"I never told you I didn't ask for it." He took the rag without gratitude, adding fresh stains to old ones, then tossed it away. It landed on the High Overseer's boot where it stayed until a skinny Warfare unattached to a Holger device snatched it up and folded it into a neat, tiny square before stuffing it into his coat pocket, and resuming his rigid position.

"You never told me otherwise," the High Overseer said and strolled three paces forward, planting himself in front of the hedge gate, right smack in the middle of his line of sight. The bastard.

"Another assumption then? Careful, High Overseer, the dangers of assuming are vast." The beige whale fountain against a short masonry wall, trickling a steady stream of water from the hairline crack running under its basin, hid the pathway he had taken when entering this part of the courtyard. Two groups of five Warfares stood on either side. Not an option. A Transversal there and he'd have to run back to the Abbey, and toward more Warfares that may or may not be inside. And he bet there were plenty inside.

"A little red dove tells me your secrets."

That got his attention. It was obvious baiting, but impossible to ignore. Duchess Katrina Armas had never worn red. She called it "vulgar" and favored the lighter shades like creams and sage. And no female of the Duke's court even knew his real name, let alone his encounter with the Outsider. Then for some absurd reason, Esma Boyle to mind, and her snug, red velvet petticoat over the pants that accented her "finest posterior in all of Dunwall" — an attribute Sokolov had not exaggerated. He'd shared the brief privilege of its company only once, the soft swell of it bouncing in his peripheral vision as he'd carried her unconscious form to the cellar, and into the embrace of Lord Brisby. But Esma Boyle had known nothing of her mysterious party guest, aside from him being dashing and beguiling enough to fall for his deception.

No, this red dove was not Lady Boyle — who was Void knows where now in The Isles.

"Outsider have your tongue, Corvo?" said the High Overseer, sounding amused, though his eyes narrowed behind his spectacles.

He suppressed a sigh, thinking of a young life lying broken on a blood-spattered floor. "Does this dove have a name?" The rest of the Warfares were scattered among the larger groups, spaced so he couldn't get past without one snagging him or getting in the way. For one Transversal and then running until his mana regenerated, and somehow gaining enough distance before the music boxes of doom began their symphony — required precision. Transversing over a hedge might work. Then again, if he landed in the middle of a patch of fire roses, the burning thorns would do the Warfares job for them.

"I'll give her the honor of introducing herself. She's quite eager to meet you."

"Are we waiting for her?"

"No, we're waiting for Fairchild's head. I trust you left it attached?"

He stared at the High Overseer, once again stunned into silence. Who _was _this bastard?

_He is Tarquin Hawk. Gifted, clever. At age seven they chose him. He still dreams of his father_ _'s screams. And the stench of burning flesh lingers long after he wakes. _

His breath caught at the sound of her voice. The Heart, speaking from…somewhere. He scanned the courtyard and the Warfares for a hint of her location while the High Overseer (Tarquin Hawk?) pontificated with an airy gesture toward the fluttering banners of the Abbey:

"I don't doubt your abilities, Corvo. But one has to be certain. Can't have two of us running about, can we?"

_In Pandyssia, Tarquin saw all manner of creatures. Birds with tail feathers the length of his arm. Insects the size of his palm. And giant winged serpents flying in the distance. How he marveled at them! _

She sounded breathier than normal, as if winded. Still couldn't pinpoint her location, but the whistling wind of her mechanical gears tuned out whatever Hawk said next.

_But none he loved more than the great cat, coat all the colors of autumn and night. Teeth the length of a blood ox tusk. Its eyes, feral and wise and so bright! The color of new gold._

"Corvo? Are you well? You've gone an interesting shade of sallow."

"Shut up. Where is she?"

A small frown in response to his rudeness, and pressed lips, canted head. "I told you, you'll meet her soon."

"Not your fucking dove. The Heart, what was in my belt pouch. Where did you put her?"

Understanding now, the little "ah hah" light shining in Tarquin Hawk's eyes. He smiled, but not with pleasure. "That abomination we found, yes. It is safe."

"Give her back. She's not a weapon, and she better be whole, damn you, or I will — "

"What? Kill me? Torture me? Little crow, you're in no position to threaten." And as if to emphasize his leader's point, Brother Matthew tugged his hood hard enough to cut off his air again. He jerked forward, unbalancing his irritating guard and sending him stumbling against his back. A jangling began from the nearest box, but Hawk raised his hand. "No, don't bother. I want to know how he knows we haven't destroyed it."

"A little clockwork dove told me," he said. "Better go find her before she tells me all your secrets."

Hawk didn't seem to care for being the victim of his own baiting game. And by his stiffening posture and rather cagey glance toward the stone pathway that sloped down the hill past the hedge gate, it seemed Hawk had also forgotten how to play. So that's where he needed to go. Thank you, Mr. High Overseer sir, for being predictable.

_He sees the cat in you. Wild. Powerful. And a weapon. He longs to break your spirit. To turn you against_ _…no…Let me be! Please, Corvo…her hands…" _

She never had addressed him by name before. And he had never heard that frightened trill in her voice, not even when she had been dying in his arms.

He stood up, knocking Brother Matthew back and creating a wave of reactions that ranged from shouts to swords and pistols aiming at various parts of his anatomy. Boxes seemed hesitant, their owners looking to the High Overseer for guidance, but Hawk stared ahead, a statue in the face of an oncoming storm, the rippling flap of his long military coat the only movement.

"So you're taking my offer after all. Remember, Corvo. One chance. Make it count."

"You'd be dead before your men blinked. Don't you care about that?" It was either Hawk or the hedge gate. Jessamine needed him, but this High Overseer needed to die. Did this idiot really think he could control him? One leash, however slack, was enough. He would not be a slave to the Overseers.

"You won't kill me."

"You sound so damn confident. And why is that? You have a bone charm against death?"

"I have better. I have…_her_."

Up the stone path, multiple footsteps clicking and clacking in their military march. Everyone in the courtyard turned, and when the new arrivals entered his line of sight, the Warfares, High Overseer and the panicking Brother Matthew behind him ceased to exist.

Dressed in the same dark gray as their brothers, but wearing golden masks more suited for feminine faces, two Oracles brushed aside the fire roses and pivoted to allow a third Oracle, clad in crimson and black, passage into the courtyard. A dainty figure, and no taller than the hedges around her. This third wore a black mask instead of gold, and instead of a blank facade, a saddened one with closed eyes and the mouth frozen in the act of sobbing. Tears of gold on each cheek, and outlining the symbols on her forehead. Her wimple flowed as the rest of her, overskirt swaying as she came forward. She held his eyes not with her own, but with what she carried in her hands.

_So much light. I cannot bear it. I am blind. I am_ _…burning! No more, please…Corvo, help me! _

The Heart.

He Transversed and grabbed the bitch by the throat, expecting her to drop Jessamine in reflex, but her fingers laced even tighter around her prize — and though the mask hid her face, he knew she was smiling.

Something stuck the back of his knees, sending a shot of hot agony up his thigh. He buckled and rolled, but the same weapon slammed into his back. Muscles spasmed and tore. The music added another level of misery, piercing his mind and emptying him of thought. The weapon _thunked_ in front of his face. Multiple gleaming points and smooth black metal. A mace. Its sleek form turned in place as if displaying itself to him, then lifted again.

He closed his eyes and sighed. So it would be like this, then. If the Cosmos was real, and if it accepted him, he would find them again. Jessamine and Emily, they would have an eternity to forgive him.

"Cease. He stays alive." An emotionless, soft command.

"High Oracle, the witch should be executed!" The Oracle sounded quite dismayed she couldn't bash in his skull.

"No…he should be revered."

No one said a word. Tension chilled the heated air, the confusion almost physical enough to touch.

_Arella Agar, High Oracle. She saw herself smothered by her father's hand, and drowned by her mother's. She poisoned them both. The Abbey found her after._

Small hands pushed him onto his ruined back, and a black mask peered down at him. Then she removed it, handing it to the Oracle by her side. Young, no more than twenty. Round fair face and fairer skin. Eyebrows, elegant and arched, and the color of ripened strawberries. Her hair would be the same color. All that red…

_"A little red dove tells me your secrets."_

The High Oracle bent low, a chain bearing the Abbey's trident swinging inches above his lips. She ran her fingers through his hair, consoling him as if he were a child, her eyes staring at something in the distance. "I've been waiting for you. We all have. Waiting for the stars to speak your name…Corvo Attano. You will end the darkness." Her eyes, colorless, but not blind, drifted from whatever dream she gazed upon and found his own.

Looking into them was like looking into glass, and beyond the glass, all manner of horrors.

"You will destroy the Outsider."


	3. Bitter Symphony

If it hadn't been for the chains, he would have killed himself the first night.

The music never ended. Outside his cell, two Holger devices cranked without hands, courtesy of new toggling technology from Sokolov—who, in whatever dank hole in Tyvia the former Royal Physician now cowered in—never seemed to tire of inventing new ways of inflicting misery. This particular novelty enabled his torturers could go about their business while he suffered—chained to the wall by his wrists and neck—an unending cycle of weakness, tremors, and a pulsing ache that had made itself at home behind his right eye.

Reprieve came three times a day—three random, precious intervals where his wounds would heal a little more and his mind would clear and the magic would always come slinking back like a kicked hound, growling and weary and resentful of its mistreatment. These reprieves were his meals, lavish by prison standards and indulgent by common folk: fresh baked bread, spicy pilaf and fish—sometimes a pastry or fruit if whoever prepared these decadent marvels felt so inclined. Fine food, Hawk had said when attempting to feed him through a music box serenade, deserves to be in the stomach, not on the floor.

So after that unfortunate incident, he ate in blissful silence, and with the lethargy of an elderly man, drawing out the moments bite by deliberate bite. And Hawk would pace outside his cell as if strolling along a scenic path instead through one of the murky halls of the Palace dungeon, his lips caught in a strange half-smile, and his gaze fixed on the past. Every so often, those eyes would settle on him and look _through_ him, seeing some other creature in chains—this great Pandyssian cat who had killed half of Hawk's hunting party when it had escaped. Hawk would relay this tale many times, and with the awe of a child, how magnificent it was in its wrath, how graceful its savagery as it tore his men apart. If Hawk could capture it again, he would bring it back to The Isles—even if it meant feeding it every one of his men to keep it alive.

But it was gone forever, Hawk had said during one impassioned retelling, grasping the bars and peering through with all the intensity of his namesake. And its ghost still haunted him. It stalked him in his dreams, its eyes, brilliant and yellow and ravenous. The shade of it followed him everywhere in the waking world. But often he would catch a glimmer of it in the eyes of his foes—heretics and witches, the infamous Marked. A feral intelligence, a force of nature that challenged Hawk to tame it, to break it—_"And yes, little crow,"_ he had whispered. _"Anything can be broken. No matter how defiant. No matter how resilient. But breaking doesn't mean slavery or defeat. It means surrendering to a higher cause. A higher purpose — a righteous purpose._

And this righteous purpose would present itself when the last crumb disappeared from his plate, when the water jug emptied and his chamber pot filled, and when he resumed his seated position on the floor and the lever came down, his chains raising and the wall met his sweating back with a jarring thud—the same offer would come. _"Help us, Corvo,"_ Hawk would say with that quiet, fervent passion of his that lulled more each time. _"Who better to hunt the hunter of men, than one like himself? Help us find Daud. Avenge your Duke. Avenge the suffering the Outsider has brought upon you, and Serkonos. Help us destroy them both."_

Each time, his refusals grew weaker and slower, and the delight in Hawk's eyes flared brighter. And the music would play again, ceaseless, excruciating, and that barbed nest behind his right eye would throb, burrowing deeper into the meat of his skull.

And there were no lulls in this shrieking crescendo, no moment when he could stop digging his heels in the dirt floor or unclench his jaw or open his eyes — because the blue haze of the music would creep inside him and rot whatever it touched. His eyes would turn to jelly in their sockets, his tongue turning to ash in his mouth, and those ashes burning their way down his throat to his organs, dissolving them one by one by one, until there was nothing left but nothing, and Outsider help him...please help him—because those barbs behind his right eye were now slithering into his left and tunneling into his ears, thorns piercing and burning and burning...please—_please_, if he could just get off one cuff. Just one. He could rip the thorns out before they did any more damage. Rip them out. Rip them out before—No, too late...too deep. Burrowing, _chewing_, eating him alive piece by piece. Please, just turn it off. _Turn it off!_

And the music stopped.

He groaned like a beaten animal and slumped forward with a sob, muscles twitching, his sanity coming back in layers of awareness. The cool dirt against the smalls of his feet. The balmy air wafting through the tiny slot of a window high behind him, the pungent floral scent of the Palace gardens nudging his head up and his eyes cracking open. The blue haze was gone and so, thankfully, the need to plunge his thumbs into his eye sockets. No more barbed nest tunneling into his skull. No more prayers to an uncaring deity. The green tinge of the moon, typical for the Month of Earth, cast a watery pall over the walls and floor, making his cell glow like the holds of a sunken ship. Unlit and unseen hanging lamps swayed, metal frames creaking. Then a shadow moved at his cell door, slim and small. Not Hawk.

This shadow reached a slender arm toward a section of wall he couldn't see, and a whale oil lamp burst into hazy, golden life.

"Arella," he said, losing half her name in the dry tunnel of his throat.

Gone was the prim uniform of the High Oracle. She wore a shift of sea silk, a gauzy material the color of cream and with a lace neckline cut low, the hem stopping at mid-thigh and revealing the legs of a dancer, strong and toned and so white they appeared luminescent. She carried a wide-mouthed ceramic jug etched with blue canna lilies and a matching towel thrown over her shoulder. Her hair seemed to celebrate its freedom from the wimple as it cascaded to her waist in a torrential waterfall of dark auburn curls.

She waited outside his cell with the intent, it seemed, to give him time to collect himself. And he needed it. The music had been worse this time around, his resistance no longer as effective as before. Yes, when it played, he always wanted to die, but never had he wanted to pluck his own eyes out, or scoop his brains out of his skull. He couldn't even pass out from exhaustion - as tended to happen during the lengthier stretches. It was wearing him down, and with a sudden alarming speed that portended his eventual madness. How many sessions could he endure before he stopped recovering? How many sessions before his magic left him altogether? The Mark on his hand stayed dark. Dead. Not even a thread of power in his veins.

_It will come back, it always does. Don't worry. Don't give in. It'll come. Be patient, it'll come._

While he was encouraging himself, Arella moved toward a Holger device and raised her arm as if to turn it on. The mantra in his head shut up and he tensed, not breathing, not blinking, a fearful shout of NO! rising like bile in his mouth. But he didn't say it. He wouldn't give her the satisfaction.

She cocked her head, one red tendril of hair falling over her nose. "Does pride keep you from begging, or does fear?"

"You're the Oracle...you tell me." He all but hissed the words, glaring at her attire, at the way her shift became transparent when the light hit it just right. Why would Hawk allow her to run around like that? Why was she alone and without escort?

"It is neither." She entered his cell and approached him without trepidation, red curls catching on the towel and then freeing themselves in impatient pendulum swings. "What keeps you silent is guilt, and shame, and hate — and not hate for us, but for yourself." She set the jug on the bench where he took his meals, and stood over him, staring down as if he was some new, fascinating thing she had discovered. "We are brother and sister in pain, Corvo, forged in violence and sorrow. It is all we know in this life, and so we seek suffering again and again, bearing it without complaint, like the rock that suffers the tide."

"Why are you here?" His voice not quite a whisper, and not quite steady. It was like she stripped him to his soul in the matter of seconds, a feat Hawk had yet to accomplish, and the High Overseer had been trying all week.

"Tarquin has seen to your stomach, but neglects your smell. This will remedy that."

And what else did she intend to remedy? "How...kind," he said and cleared his throat. She smelled of the ocean, of the brine in the air, and the waves cresting under the scorching heat of the summer sun. One could lose themselves in that scent. In all that hair tumbling over her back. And what would she smell like in other places? He had seen no outline of an undergarment. Nothing but smooth silk and teasing flesh beneath. He shifted his legs, hiding the interest building there. "If you leave the jug and lengthen the chains, I'll see to it myself."

"No, this task is mine." Her eyes caught the light and brought the images behind the glass again. That horror without form. Something lurked in this High Oracle, something that rivaled the darkness of the Outsider. The Overseers accepted the Oracles' powers of foresight as divine. But most of their reverent sisters needed a helping hand of narcotics to "see" the future. True clairvoyance…that was rare. And suspect. Arella's abilities didn't originate from some sacred constellation or benevolent star cloud. That darkness behind her eyes was the Void saying hello. And wherever the Void appeared, the Outsider wasn't far behind. But was she his? Or was she bound to something else?

She bent over and dipped the washrag, the valley of her breasts dark and inviting through the gap of her scalloped collar, the red curtain of her hair flowing over one white shoulder. Void or no Void, she made a tempting distraction. He licked his lips and said, "I doubt very much Hawk sent you here."

"He did not."

"I don't understand, sister...High Oracle—"

"Arella, as you called me before."

"Arella...you might want to have one of your sisters do this task. Where are they?"

"Outside the dungeon. It was our compromise." She wrung the washrag over the jug, giving it a firm shake, then started with his feet. He closed his eyes under her gentle touch, fighting to keep his breathing steady. Her voice washed over him in the same manner, lulling and low. "My visions are sacred and accepted as truth, but they don't trust your role in the days to come. It is unthinkable to them, a witch who will bring death to the one who gave him power. They don't want me to even see you. They believe you're tainted by the Void, and they are right. As they are right to fear you."

"I'm chained to the wall with a leg and backside one of them mangled," he said and shifted again when she rolled his pants to his knees. "Even if the chains dropped off and my magic returned full power, they have their maces and that damn noise. What's there to be afraid of?"

The hall outside his cell stayed empty, but for how long? If Arella's sister had any sense, they wouldn't be guarding the door—they would be bringing Hawk with all speed. And when Hawk took a gander at his precious High Oracle give their pet witch a sponge bath—well, it wasn't hard to guess what the punishment would be.

She patted his legs dry, the soles of his feet, and between his toes, taking care not to miss a single drop of moisture. "They fear anything they cannot predict," she said. "My sisters lie to themselves. They think they see the future, but they see dreams and smoke. If they had a fraction of my sight, one moment in my place—if they saw what I see every time I close my eyes or look into the eyes of another, they would go mad."

"Like that Horncroft woman?"

"Yes, dear Gwen. So many futures piled high in her mind, like tea cups on a plate. So many to balance, and eventually they fell...and they shattered."

"But somehow, this hasn't happened to you."

She smiled and wrung the washrag again, water cascading over his forearm—and splashing onto the bodice of her shift. "You and I, we're already broken. Already insane. It's why they chain us to walls or put masks on our faces. We terrify them."

"You're not in chains, High Oracle." The words left his mouth without thought, and his mind shrank from his lack of tact. Her soft rebuke brought heat to his face.

"All because you can't see my chains, doesn't mean I don't wear them...and please, it's Arella. My name is not my station."

"I apologize...Arella. And, you're right. I suppose we're monsters in our own way. But monsters are killed by those who fear them. So why are we still here?"

"Because killing us would be kind, and the Void is not kind."

"Cruelty belongs to the world, not the Void. The Void doesn't betray or lie."

"Yet you blame the one who walks there all the same." She studied the Mark with the tip of her finger, the washrag like a glove. Her palm pressed to his, steadying his hand in the chain cuffs as the other explored. Slow, gentle circles and dripping water. The lower part of him began to stir again, his breath catching, then quickening. She mesmerized him with the motions, the care she took in tracing the veins in his hands, in his wrists. Her breasts rose and fell, the sodden material leaving nothing to his imagination.

He jerked his eyes away, blood rushing in his ears and other places. Maybe Hawk did send her. Maybe this was some ploy to win him over—a torture of a different sort and one beguiling enough to succeed. But she would not undo him so easily. He was not some besotted Overseer or servant boy enthralled by her power or beauty. Arella had made him her enemy the moment she took what mattered to him most.

"I know this game," he said. "But why not send one of your underlings to seduce me? If not your sisters, then a servant girl." He didn't look at her as she washed under his collar and around his ears, her breasts pressing into his ribs.

"And the next morning we'd be burning a corpse. Even the lowest of us despise you. And if you could be swayed by such a simple thing as lust, I would have had you the moment Tarquin turned his back, but you are not a beast, Corvo. And I am not your adversary." She swept aside the wet tangles of his hair, an intimate touch that brought another face into his thoughts. Dark waves replaced red curls, and blue eyes replaced gray. An unpleasant tug of guilt then, and the same damn regret. If he had been faster that day, more vigilant. She'd still be alive, and he wouldn't be chained to the wall with this strange creature on top of him.

"You want to be friends, Arella? Then bring me Jessamine. She doesn't belong to you."

"Oh, but she never was yours, not even when she was alive."

He flinched under her hand, chains clanking. "You know nothing about—"

"How you loved her?" Arella said, her eyes pulling him in, drowning him. All the hairs on his body stiffened along with the rest of him as the washrag began a slow decent from his neck down to his bare torso, past his navel, where she abandoned it to slide her hand under the waistline of his thin cotton pants. She then cupped that part of him that had been neglected for too long—that part of him that hardened even more at her touch, defenseless against it. "The first time you made love to her," she said into his ear, "you both hid behind masks. But you knew her scent, her body, her name on your lips and forever seared in your heart. A secret you kept even when the child was born—but you knew that everyone knew—and that emboldened you. You stole moments in the hallway, in her chambers, in the gardens—but she was careful after Emily. So careful not to let it go too far."

"You...you, can't know that. Did she tell you—the Heart?" He defied the angry twinge in his injuries, arching into that hot, dainty hand, and when she rolled her wrist—he was lost, her touch and her words igniting that long forgotten memory.

"Not the Heart, not Jessamine. But you…you are showing me, Corvo." She pressed against him, moving with his thrusts, her shift riding up, exposing her bare thighs and ass. An electric current seemed to hum over his skin, whispering through the raised hairs on his neck and chest. "I see everything. I see the past in all its glory. I see that night of the Fugue Feast, you and her entwined on her bed, on red sheets dampened with your sweat, your bodies glistening, moving with such grace and passion and abandonment. I'm between you now, and I feel your hearts beating so furiously, so frantically. Her cries in my ear, and your moans against my mouth. She and I milk every drop of seed from you, Corvo Attano, and leave you spent and dazed and aching for more. Yes...yes, like that," she breathed against his cheek. "Just like that."

He came with a convulsive cry, the Mark flaring white, his hips snapping up, his toes curling and heels digging into the cool dirt. The pleasure was a foreign thing after so much torment, and his body trembled, uncertain how to stop. But he did quiet under her unblinking stare, the electric current fading, the spasms receding and the heat leaving, and the emptiness taking its place, leaving him cold and aware of her hand still on him, cleaning him now with the washrag, stroking him with it as if to say _hush, I know, I know..._

And he hated her then. How she saw right through him, his hungers and his needs and his weaknesses. How she saw memories that belonged only to him and Jessamine—and even these thoughts running through his mind now, she knew somehow. Her smile told him so.

But still, he wanted her. If only for the heat between her legs and her body against his. That primal need she seemed to understand—and damn her, encourage. Milk every drop, oh yes, he would hold her to that. And much more.

But the music drove them apart.

His arousal and what little magic had come creeping back evaporated in a burst of chaotic sound. He winced, drew his knees to his chest and drove his head into the crook of his arm as if that taut, sweaty flesh could somehow lessen the onslaught bearing down on him. The jug toppled over and gray foamy water sloshed out, soaking his pants and making mud. Arella snarled a word the music snatched from the air, and departed in a rush of motion. His cell door slammed shut with a muted clang. More words exchanged in varying intensities, the throaty displeasure of Hawk unmistakable over the discordant choir.

Then, blessed relief as the music ceased.

He hissed a sigh and unfurled his body, noting the still-warm washrag plastered to his stomach. He grimaced and twisted until the evidence of his weakness flopped on the floor. Hawk and Arella traded verbal blows in front of his cell, their conversation coming to him in snatches between the ringing in his ears. His punishment depended on who won, and while Arella had pissed him off, she was his only chance at making Hawk compromise with these damn music boxes. He didn't want them turned off, but he didn't want them on either. He had another solution, one he had been waiting for the right time to suggest.

He scooted away from the mud as much as he could, and settled back into his usual sitting position—not that there was much room to deviate. The High Oracle and High Overseer continued to argue, their subject of disagreement…unexpected. Hawk had caught him with his pants down, literally, and witnessed the High Oracle doing things that would have sent their entire Order into a fit of rage. Yet, Hawk was complaining about…being disturbed?

"They were wailing at my door, rousing the entire Palace—my Warfares, the new Grand Guard recruits, even the blasted servants! Thank the Cosmos the Duchess was exhausted from the funeral, or she would have been squawking along with the rest of them." Barefoot, and in his nightly attire: a dark blue muslin tunic laced over his lean chest, and loose-fitting pants, Hawk had lost some of what made him imposing, but made up for it with the stony set of his jaw, and a glower so icy it could have frosted over his spectacles.

"You should have sent them on errand, made them patrol the gardens, or posted them outside the Duchess's chambers," Arella said, her chin raised and her body a rigid wire. Water dripped down the back of her thighs from a wet splotch high on her ass, a gift from the toppled water jug. "They would've followed your orders without question."

"For all your foresight, my dear, you don't seem to realize how difficult your sisters are making this transition. They barely obeyed when I ordered them to stay put. You don't seem to realize how close they were to charging down here with a riled-up squad of Warfares and Grand Guard at their backs. Your impatience could have cost us everything!"

"I didn't foresee interruption." Sullen, like a scolded child. "The stars told me—"

"That I would come? That we would be having this conversation? Because you seem surprised, my dear."

Point for Hawk, and another point for standing against a woman who could probably predict the exact moment and method of his demise. How would have Fairchild fared against a creature like this? Or Martin, or Campbell for that matter? They would have shrank away, no doubt, at the sight of the High Oracle balling her fists, power almost crackling around her. There was no evidence of this force, no starlight aura like the Outsider radiated. But even though he sat chained several feet from her, the hairs on his body rose again as they had when she had been cooing about Jessamine in his ear, but this was stronger. This was the warning hum of a Wall of Light not attuned to his flesh, when one step through in the wrong direction would disintegrate everything he was in an instant. The scent of ozone and ocean, then. A storm in full wrath and roiling waves beneath its gale.

The scent of the Void.

Closer to the danger, Hawk drew up to full height, but instead of retreating, he stepped toward that electricity buzzing around the High Oracle—drawn to it, it seemed, as he had been to that Pandyssian cat. It was Arella who took a step back, who curled her lip as if revolted by the sight of him or whatever she saw in his future.

"Your intrusion doesn't matter, nor am I afraid of their judgment." Arella's voice was a dull blade, but it drew blood all the same. "I wasn't _finished_. And I'm still not finished. If your men take so much as a step down those stairs without my consent, I will have them shot."

"I've already ordered them to avoid this area."

"Your orders are not enough. Their hate is stronger than their sense and they will try again. Tell them, Tarquin, you tell them what will happen if they disobey _me._"

"And your sisters? What of them?" Hawk said, his breath coming in soft, labored pants. In the lamplight, sweat glistened on the High Overseer's brow.

"I will discipline them. And then again. And then once more. After that…and after that, I think…I —" Arella's hand fluttered to her forehead and her gaze went someplace else, giving Hawk a moment to glance at the cell for the first time since he'd entered the dungeon. The look was indiscernible, falling somewhere between accusation and resignation. It was the look of someone who knew this was going to happen, who had tried to delay it as long as he could, but knew it would be impossible. All those stories told about Pandyssia, pacing back and forth, stealing glances toward the stairs leading up to the Palace cellars—then the strange absence of guards posted. No one checking in. He assumed they assumed the music would be enough to keep him docile, but no, Hawk was making sure if the High Oracle decided to visit, no one would witness her indulging in a guilty pleasure.

Until he played nice and agreed to this bizarre plan of killing the Outsider, he was still the villain, still the one the brothers and sisters wanted to burn or stick his head on a spike. And if they had caught her with her hand down his pants, they would have cried _blackmagic!_ and hauled him upstairs to do one of the two—and not even Hawk's authority or Arella's visions would have stopped that mob. It gave him a new understanding of the situation, but made it even more confusing. Somehow, his captors had also become his protectors.

When Arella came back from wherever Oracles go when divining the future, swaying and holding her forehead as if afraid something would spill out, most of her anger had deflated, and the buzzing energy had reduced itself to a low-level hum. Safe to approach, and Hawk reached her in two quick steps, gathering her in his arms, muffling the beginnings of a broken sob against his chest. Whatever Arella had seen, it had reduced her from a powerful Oracle to a distraught female who sniffled and said "they are dying" into Hawk's chest over and over again. Hawk stroked her hair and shot him a look over the crimson top of Arella's head, lips pressed and turned down, jaw working as if ready to say:_"See how this girl suffers? See what this power does to her? _

But he already knew. Whether you see the world through eyes that can gaze into the future, or watch a heart beat through walls, or study an enemy frozen in time before you plunge a blade into his neck, there was always a downside to power, the sense of wrongness when you wielded it, the allure of using it to solve all your problems. But he knew something else. No matter how hard Arella cried, or how much he regretted, they wouldn't surrender their power. It was theirs. A gift or curse, it was theirs, and without it, they would be without that advantage. They would be vulnerable. And in this world, the weak and defenseless are used and tossed aside. Those with power survived. Those with power ruled.

She lifted her head, then, wiping her eyes. That electric field hummed higher and Hawk moved an arms-length away. But she reached out and took a hold of his wrist, bringing him back into her embrace. Her arms wound around the High Overseer's neck and she brought her lips to his in a chaste kiss. Then she said, stroking Hawk's face as he had her hair, "Your way isn't working."

By the High Overseer's tired sigh and lack of anger, this seemed to be an old argument. "Patience my dear. You may see the destination, but you forget the journey. Our little crow will see reason soon. Give him some time."

"We have none."

"We have plenty. Everything is as it should be. The Duchess is ours. Karnaca is ours. Daud will be found soon and—"

"But what about the doors? The bleeding doors with teeth? And the Great Ones, their bones like mountains on the shores, death spilling from their blackened throats?" Arella stood on her tiptoes, pale calves knotted and straining. She had Hawk now by the strings of his tunic, the fabric bunching with every desperate tug, and Hawk staring down at her with a dim sort of amazement, as if her electrified aura had zapped him senseless. "We need to stop it before it begins. We need to make him understand! He can't run from this. He can't sail away or pretend it doesn't exist." She released Hawk who stumbled back, dazed, and she turned to the cell door. An unreasonable bolt of terror lanced through him at the sight of her glassy eyes. Something there, something dark. He tried backing up as she neared, forgetting the wall behind him. The lantern's glow cast her face in shadow and flame.

"No more hiding behind masks," she said. "Face what you are, and what you must do."

That hate came back, and he latched onto it, using it to shake off whatever magic she used against him. He stopped trying to disappear into the wall and leaned forward as far as the chains would allow. "I will face my own demons in my own time, and a little girl in a wet nightdress isn't going to tell me when. Fate isn't decided by the Cosmos or some black-eyed entity in the Void. It's decided by choices and actions—and consequences to those choices and actions. Like stealing something precious, something that once I escape, I'm going to tear through every Overseer and Oracle to reclaim." He relaxed with a smile that used to make the nobles in Jessamine's court quail in fear. "So both of you bear that in mind while you groom and fatten me up. I'll find a way out of this cage. And then I'll find my way to you. And if the Heart isn't exactly as I left her, no whispering star is going to save you, High Oracle. There'll be nothing left of you but a pretty smear on the wall."

Hawk opened his mouth—to probably launch into another tiresome paralleling tale of subduing his holy cat—but Arella silenced him with a raised hand. She pressed against the cell bars, her appraisal cold and feline, as if he was something she wanted to eat, but couldn't reach. Then came a sudden sense of _invasion,_ a prickling across the nape of his neck that had nothing to do with the collar around it. And then that dreamy look again in her eyes, and a devious smile twisting her lips. Without turning, she said to Hawk, "Tonight, leave the music off."

The implications of Arella's words didn't register at first. Then his gut dropped and kept dropping until it reached some invisible bottom where it balled itself into a gnarled, quivering thing. On the other side of the bars, Hawk mirrored the same emotion on his face saying, "But that creature will consort with him."

"Yes, and do you see the terror in our crow's eyes? The audiograph we found in his secret room makes sense now doesn't it, Tarquin? It wasn't to make himself resilient to our music, it was to keep the Void away —"

"It was to keep my dreams mine." Damn that childish waver in his voice. And damn her magic, whatever its source. The Overseers music was efficient for torturing witches, but not a witch they seemed to want sane and healthy. Hawk would have to turn it off eventually, and that would provide the perfect opportunity to "confess" his sins and ask for clemency. Then he would've requested his audiograph—and that might have tipped the scales in his favor, enough maybe to grant his freedom. But all his careful scheming had been ruined by this freak. This woman who reeked of Void, and was as unnatural as the Outsider himself.

As if sensing his thoughts, Arella caressed the bars, the gesture somehow more lewd than when her hand had been in his pants. "Your dreams will be his tonight," she said, her words on the verge of singsong. "It's been so long and he's so eager to reacquaint."

"If he frees me, you'll be waking up with my blade at your pretty throat—if I let you wake up at all."

"The Outsider will never free you. Not until you sever the bond of his magic to your soul." To Hawk she said: "Come…our flock needs reassurance and new posts, preferably far away from our bird's cage. And Duchess Katrina is having another nightmare. She requires my guidance."

"Wait! High Overseer, please don't let her do this," he said, grasping at whatever shred of camaraderie he and Hawk might have developed after enduring those endless fairy tales of Pandyssia. "I don't...want to see him."

"As much as it pains me to leave you at the mercy of that creature," Hawk said with genuine sympathy, re-lacing his tunic and tying a sloppy knot. "The High Oracle is right and wise to suggest this. Her visions are divine truth. If in her mind, she sees you chained and unharmed in the morning, then it will come to pass. It's a harsh lesson when we discover trusted friends are really enemies. But if you allow it, sworn enemies can be trusted friends. Think on it, Corvo. Ponder it with all your conscience. You have strayed, but you know our strictures. Perhaps recite a few of them to ease your fears, and to give you the strength to resist the temptations of the Void…and of its master. May the stars watch over you, Corvo. And goodnight."

"No, Hawk...Arella. This is a mistake!" Then, to their retreating backs: "Mudlark cunts…Void damn you both!"

They didn't reply. Hand in hand, the High Oracle and High Overseer left him to confront the silence alone.

The wall lamps flickered and dimmed. On some sort of timer, or maybe toggled like the Holger devices. He'd never noticed before because his world had been the music and meals. Music and Hawk. Music and Arella—when he'd seen her slender shadow outside his cell once or twice, never knowing if he'd imagined her presence or not. And now this quiet. This thick, velvet quiet that brought his magic purring back into his veins and luring him into a doze. A tiny band of moonlight from his cell window slanted on the bars of his cell. A bar of light on bars of steel. The color changed from white to a rich violet.

He jerked awake with a small cry. The lamps had been floating, hadn't they? The dirt under his toes felt wrong. Too soft and warm, like fine beach sand. Whale song drifted through his cell window, haunting and mournful, their lament for the end of the world. No, he was a fool. He didn't need the audiograph. It was like a pebble for luck, or a talisman to ward off evil spirits. Its power was in his head. The Outsider had lost interest long ago. Given up, maybe…hopefully. Probably found someone else by now to corrupt and ruin. No, he wasn't special anymore. Wasn't interesting. He'd be just like the other millions of souls that dream themselves into the Void sea, one of the millions floating by, unworthy of notice. Faceless and ordinary.

_Ordinary, Corvo? You are a beacon among these millions, worthy of my interest and undivided attention. And you have it now, as always. But someone else has been waiting anxiously for your return to the Void. Someone you had left for dead among the whale bones and sewage of Old Dunwall. Be careful, Corvo, she still bears a grudge._

The Outsider's voice seemed to come from the shadows under the bench, the wisps of smoke from the lamps outside, the beam of moonlight that had changed from the sickly green to a vibrant hue not quite purple and not quite blue. The Mark glowed as if pleased to hear its master's voice, even as its wearer resisted the pull of the Void, concentrating on the hard iron around his wrists, the collar heavy on his neck. The flowery breath easing through his window did nothing for the beads of cold sweat breaking over his upper lip.

He resisted._ Defied_. But he was exhausted, and given his rather amorous activities this evening, one might even say he was _spent_. And that empty place tugged at his consciousness with a warm, comforting hand, promising release from his dank, dreary cell. And wouldn't he like that? Wouldn't it be wonderful to spend an evening without chains, without that awful music making him want to tear out his eyes, without worrying how he was going to escape a woman who seemed to predict his every move, without the _dreary_ real world and its troubles ruining all his fun?

_Yes, dearie, don_ _'t spend another moment in that dreary place! Come and dance! The Boyles are throwing a lovely party, and everyone who is anyone is invited. You're the guest of honor, dear sweet man, and I have a surprise for you. A special birthday gift I made from Slackjaw's bones. Yes, yes, that ill-mannered lout is dead! Boiled in the pot and left to rot. You silly thing, did you think burning my cameo and leaving me to that ruffian would end me? Oh no no no, not at all. Granny Rags has faced worse, much worse. Pandyssian savages and doors with teeth! But no hard feelings. I have forgiven you. And I want to do my part again. Yes, do my part for my black-eyed groom. Come, come! The Waltz of Roses is about to begin. And I can't very well dance by myself, can I? _

His chains rusted and crumbled, his cell bars and walls breaking to pieces, revealing the pearlescent skies of the Void and its strange floating debris of the waking world. He floundered in the grip of something, a force that didn't let him drift to the glowing white core of the Void like a stray feather or a puff of cloud.

It yanked.

He plummeted without a sound, unable to stop himself, or transverse onto one of the suspended islands, or break free of the tether that drew him deeper and deeper, toward an unknown destination…

And unknown fate.

* * *

I want to give a sincere thanks to not only my reviewers, but for those who faved and are following. I wouldn't mind a comment or two from you *hint hint* but knowing that you're reading is good enough. But special thanks to Bland and Skarto for their thoughtful reviews and for presenting the concepts I don't always spell out. And even to MD, though we disagreed on some of the more ambiguous aspects of canon, you still provided a few crits that I ironed out in the first chapter.

This story is doing well here, but it's faring better on AO3 - surprisingly. I didn't realize the Dishonored fandom is bigger there, like 200 more stories bigger. And these stories are not all "porn" as some might assume, but with some very wonderful stories that feature rare pairings or no pairings at all. I encourage those reading to check AO3 out if you haven't. There are plenty of gems over there :D


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